Icicles clung to the gutters,
and fell and stuck into the snow
beside me and my father's feet,
as we stepped into our breaths to my mother's door,
and the prairie sky beat against his coarse cheeks,
while mine were covered with wool.
My mother opened the door a teenager
with hard green eyes who lived her every thought
and movement in that guiltless-brutal prairie town.
I froze together their past in the doorway,
and he refused to be scathed or defeated-
a teenage boy with a black beard and a leather coat,
who instinctively blurted out wrongs when he saw her.
My mother shut the door, took off my winter clothes,
and went to turn off her running bath water,
then came out kissed my cheek, and told me she'd be a minute.
I sat with my Lego's and listened to her arms splash,
then felt dry so I went and pried open the fridge
got the apple juice and scaled the counter for a cup.
I sat on the sofa and listened to her arms
and stared out at my tricycle buried white in the yard
through the frosted patio pane and frozen barbecue.
The ice-cream truck drove by while
me and my friend Casey where running
through the sprinklers and mosquitoes. Wait!
I looked down at my socks on the coffee table-
wet from spilled apple juice.
My mother's ashtray was flooded
and the butts were yellow boats on the surface.
I picked it up and her arms seemed to splash faster;
black ashes swam on my hands and the opaque glass
and they were itchy and felt and looked like my Dad's beard.
I rubbed them black and breathing on my cheeks,
and I felt so strong and unconquerable
and devoured my reflection in the television
and ran circles around my Legos' like a bull,
until I heard a scream.
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